


And The Night Comes On

by ruric



Category: Kane (Band)
Genre: Community: comment_fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-22
Updated: 2009-03-22
Packaged: 2017-11-13 18:48:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/506576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruric/pseuds/ruric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Argentina.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And The Night Comes On

The trip to Argentina was supposed to bring them back together give them some time away from the distractions of LA and Nashville, time to regroup from the conventions and touring, and, though Chris hates even thinking in fucking fuzzy touchy feely language – this trip was supposed to have given them time to connect again.

So much for supposed to’s.

He’s spent most of his time on set and though he’s enjoying it the fact is shooting a low budget movie in a foreign country, where the union rules aren’t as strict, means punishing 18 hour days. By the time he gets back to the hotel in the evening he can stay conscious just about long enough to shove some food down and read through the next day’s shooting scripts before he falls asleep.

And usually that happens half way through a conversation with Steve telling him what he’s been seeing and doing during the day.

He’s woken up more than once face down on the bed, still dressed in the clothes he was wearing the day before, without his boots (thanks to Steve), with a cover thrown over him (again thanks to Steve) and a knock on the door from room service delivering a pot of hot coffee (once again, Steve) before he has to head out leaving Steve snoring quietly deeply asleep.

He’s heading out to the set for the last day, early morning sunshine making the street too bright and he squints back up at their room, and see Steve silhouetted against the glass, sunlight reflecting from golden skin and the white cotton of his loose pants.

He gets back that evening to find Steve’s already packed for the both of them, cases sitting neatly by the door ready for their flight the next day. Would’ve been good to have some time together but Steve needs to be in Vegas to work on his next album and Chris is due back in Nashville, plus Eric’s got some auditions lined up for him to do.

Steve’s sitting at the table by the window, his notebooks and paper spread out, one pencil tucked behind his ear, another (well chewed) at marking the bars he looking at. His fingers pluck at the strings and he’s half-muttering half-singing softly to himself.

Chris toes off his boots, sits down on the bed, too tired to even think about crawling into the shower and all too aware they’ve got an alarm call set for 5am the tomorrow morning.

“I’m sorry.” 

Chris doesn’t apologise for much, believing that when you say the words you should actually mean them not offer them up as some empty platitude.

Steve looks up brow furrowed and sets the guitar gently aside, and walks over to look down at him.

“What for?”

“This...the trip..” he shrugs because one thing he knows he’s not, is anywhere near articulate when he’s this tired.

“What the fuck?” Steve shakes his head a smile playing round his lips. “Free flight to South America, 10 days to explore, a 4 star hotel and you’re apologising?”

His fingers tug at Chris’s shirt, popping buttons and Chris tries to help but Steve bats his hands out of the way. Chris’s brain might be willing but his body’s all done in and he’s really not sure he’d be forgiven if he falls asleep when Steve’s in the middle of blowing him.

But Steve just strips him, pushing his arms and legs around like he’s a posable fuckin’ Ken doll and then rolls him into bed and tucks the sheets around him like he’s six or something.

“Get some sleep, it’ll be fine tomorrow.”

It’s on his lips to argue, to say it’s their last night and that they don’t know how many more weeks it’ll be before they’re in the same place at the same time but the sounds Steve’s fingers are pulling from the guitar are sweet, the bed’s soft and Chris is exhausted.

Nine, going on ten years and one of the things he’s learned is to trust Steve so he shuts his eyes and drifts away to the sound of Steve’s voice, low and soothing as a lullabye.


End file.
